


Domestic Bliss

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Series: The Little Things Are Infinitely the Most Important [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fatherhood, Fluff, Gen, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attends a medical conference out of town, leaving Sherlock alone with baby Hamish for two days.  What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Meggs has convinced me to start a series of slice-of-life episodes depicting life with Hamish. So, here we are! They'll all come from different times within this universe but it should be fairly obvious from summary/storyline where each one fits in.

“But John!”

“No. I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”

“John.” He brought the full brunt of a Sherlockian glare down upon the doctor. John seemed unimpressed.

“No.” He continued searching for his laptop, finally liberating it from underneath the sofa where Sherlock had hidden it in a last-ditch effort to stall him. “Mrs. Hudson said she’d leave some casserole in the fridge for you before she heads off to her sister’s. I expect you to eat at least some of it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will. Don’t try to convince me you haven’t got a secret weakness for her cooking.” Damn. John was becoming increasingly more observant. “Now, I’ve left a list of what I expect will be Frequently Asked Questions on the kitchen table.”

“Read it. It’s horribly inadequate.” John groaned in exasperation.

“Sherlock, it has the telephone number for every hospital within a 40 mile radius, seventeen different suggestions for calming him down when he cries, detailed diagrams of how to change his nappy, and the exact temperature, with five significant figures, mind, you’re to heat his formula to. What more could you possibly need to know?”

“What if I get a case?”

“It’ll just have to wait,” John replied simply.  
“John!” Sherlock gasped. Waiting, even until John got home, could completely destroy any evidence. Especially if Anderson was involved.

“Call it payback for that triple murder I had to sit out last month because I was taking care of your son.” Low blow. “Next question?”

“What if Mycroft starts World War III?”

“Now you’re grasping at straws,” he scoffed.

“It’s a legitimate concern and you know it.”

“Even if your brother was to start a war, I don’t see how my being in London would especially help matters.”

“You’d be a calming influence, obviously.” Was John completely unaware of the effects he had on Hamish?

“Right. Any more pressing matters?”

“What’s Sheffield got that London hasn’t?”

“Er…a conference at the Sheffield Medical School?” A bunch of doctors swapping stories about patients who were absolutely positive it was some mutated epidemic of influenza when a few simple observations would have revealed it was the common cold. Dull. “Speaking of which, I really do need to be getting to King’s Cross, Sherlock, so if there’s nothing else –”

“He likes you better.” John’s annoyed glare softened, and he put his hands onto the detective’s shoulders.

“That’s not true. And even if it was, here’s your chance for some father-son bonding time.” The frustrated groan Sherlock was aiming for ended up more along the lines of a pained whimper. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll only be gone one night. You’ll be okay alone with Hamish for one night. I’ll be back late tomorrow, hopefully before midnight. Alright?”

“John, I really don’t think you understand the problem. I am not paternal. I do not know how to take care of anything, much less a child. Mycroft wouldn’t even let me keep the toad I found when I was five.”

“I’m sure it was in the toad’s best interests at the time. Sherlock, these things come naturally, I promise. Now, will you please let me go to Sheffield?”

“No.”

“God’s sake –” A plaintive wail from upstairs cut him off, and he gave Sherlock a wry smile. “I’ll just go fetch your charge, shall I?” Hamish seemed perfectly happy when John returned, content to examine the ridiculous tie the doctor deemed necessary for this conference. He deposited the infant gently into Sherlock’s arms, gave the man an absent-minded pat on the back, and then he was out the door. Sherlock stared down at his son, who was currently tugging at one of the buttons on his shirt cuffs. He had to admit that Hamish was sort of adorable when he was quiet; he looked impressively focused on his task, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

John was right. This was Hamish. This was his son. It would be easy. It would only be for two days. He was Sherlock Holmes. He could handle this.

The outside door slammed shut as John left the building, hailing a cab.

Hamish looked up at him and started to cry in earnest.

He couldn’t handle this.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson found them around noon: Hamish pouting loudly in his crib and Sherlock with his face buried in the couch cushions.

“A right pair, you two are. Having a spot of trouble, Sherlock?”

“My son hates me,” the sofa growled.

“Oh, that’s not true, young man,” she said blithely, placing a dish in the refrigerator. “He’s only in a bit of a strop because he’s not quite used to you yet. And I think we both know exactly whose fault that is.” Sherlock tried to glare at her, but it fell flat.

“I’m well aware of my parental shortcomings. He just won’t stop,” an unhappy shriek sounded from the crib, evolving into a series of sobs, “doing _that_ ,” he complained. Mrs. Hudson clucked at them both, picking Hamish up and trying to soothe him.

“He’s eaten?”

_(1. Try feeding him, you idiot.)_

“Yes, twice – most recently 27 minutes ago – that was the first suggestion on John’s entirely unhelpful list. And before you ask, he’s been changed. Which somehow only made it worse.”

“Maybe the darling is just in a sulk. Runs in the family, you know,” she teased, Hamish quickly quieting in her arms. “There, you see? Nothing to it.” Sherlock scoffed.

“For you and John, perhaps. I am convinced that Irene sent him to me as payback for the pregnancy.”

“Oh, come now, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson half-cooed at him, still mostly focused on the baby she was holding, “she always seemed like such a nice woman.”

“She drugged me, struck me with a riding crop, faked her own death to upset me, tricked me into accidentally committing treason, and then sold me out to Moriarty. Which part of that sequence did you consider ‘nice’?”

“You certainly must have thought she was nice, or you wouldn’t have gone off and nearly got yourself killed to save her. Not to mention that this little dear came from somewhere. Besides, it takes all sorts...” Hamish was nearly asleep now, and Mrs. Hudson twittered on about how adorable he was as she transferred him carefully into Sherlock’s arms. Surprised and encouraged when he didn’t immediately wake up and proclaim general dislike for his father, Sherlock had to admit that holding his son was at least starting to feel more natural. “Oh, my boys – you’re going to make me tear up, you’re so sweet.”

“Shut up, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied good-naturedly.

“Clot,” she responded in kind. “I’m off to my sister’s. There’s casserole in the fridge and biscuits on the desk and you had better eat some of them both. You be good for your father, little man!” Hamish answered with a yawn and snuggled closer against Sherlock’s chest; the detective allowed a corner of his mouth to turn up while his landlady simpered at them. “You’ll be fine, Sherlock. You’ll see.”

* * *

Domesticity quickly proved embarrassingly pleasant. Hamish was perfectly content to doze in his arms, tiny fist clutching at the blue silk dressing gown, while Sherlock skimmed his emails. That having been done, he glanced through the newspapers with a cup of tea and some beans on toast, searching for any story not involving the newest celebrity scandals or political maneuverings, and coming up disappointingly short. He flicked the papers away in disgust, wincing as he jostled Hamish in the process.

The peace was bound to end sooner or later.

Large blue eyes opened and peered up sleepily at him before Hamish realised the person holding him was neither John nor Mrs. Hudson and broadcasted his dismay at this discovery. Sherlock scrubbed his free hand through his curls and grabbed at John’s list; perhaps a new suggestion had somehow materialised since he saw it last.

No luck.

_10\. Hold him._

_11\. I’m serious._

Yes, because clearly that was having a wonderfully positive impact on his son. True, Hamish wasn’t screaming bloody murder like he normally did in his father’s presence, but this pathetic snivelling was somehow more upsetting. Sherlock twitched, and, before he knew it, ended up holding his mobile. It would be so simple – one quick phone call and it would only be another three hours or so until his doctor was home, at Baker Street where he belonged, taking care of Hamish. Easy. Desirable.

_16\. I mean it, Sherlock, I don’t want to leave the conference early because Hamish looked at you funny._

Sherlock growled and threw his phone onto the desk, where it skittered across old case files and sent them fluttering to the floor. Bad idea. He cringed again, expecting the baby’s protestations to increase, but Hamish seemed somewhat intrigued, his whimpers ceasing.

Interesting.

This, of course, called for further research. He tore a page out of the _Daily Mail_ and threw that onto the ground, as well. Definite curiosity on Hamish’s part. Encouraged, the entire collection of newspapers was swept off the desk and the child clapped in delight. Good. He could work with this.

He carried Hamish over to the bookshelves, fingers dancing over the spines as he sifted through the titles for anything he didn’t care about. Ah, that would do. Why his Great Aunt Gertrude had ever thought to give him this novel, Sherlock didn’t know. He had endeavored to “lose” it several times throughout his childhood only to have it find its way back onto his bedside table in pristine condition the next morning. Bloody Mycroft, always had to be Auntie Gertrude’s errand boy. Regardless, it would serve a better purpose now. Careful to ensure his son was paying attention, Sherlock ripped the title page out of _Jane Eyre_ and tossed it behind him haphazardly. Hamish watched it float down over his shoulder, enraptured, before clumsily grabbing at three dozen or so pages and attempting the trick for himself. “No, Hamish,” his father murmured gently, taking the boy’s tiny fingers in his own. “One at a time. Like this.” Eventually, he got the hang of it, inordinately pleased to see bits of what was most likely an expensive and rare edition littering the floor. Entertaining and a method of building dexterity. John would be proud. Sherlock let him carry on, leisurely pacing the length of their sitting room and allowing his mind to wander as Hamish took his boredom out on nineteenth century sentimentality.

All good things had to come to an end. He blinked away from his Mind Palace as Hamish began making a distressing mewling sound: Sherlock was still holding Jane Eyre, but the only thing left was the cover, which his son was futilely trying to rip apart, as well. “If you can manage that, I will be severely impressed.” The baby’s bottom lip was quivering again and his eyes were filling up with tears. “Alright, hold on.” Settling Hamish comfortably in John’s seat, Sherlock began the process of digging through the bookshelves for another expendable novel. Encyclopedias and other random nonfiction works began collecting in Sherlock’s chair as the detective sought out something suitable. He had completely emptied one of their shelves by the time he found an old Hardy tome, but the binding was too strong – it would only upset Hamish. The boy gave another unhappy cry from the other armchair. Well, upset him more.

_7\. Try the violin. He seemed to especially enjoy that one you played Tuesday that kind of went di-doodle-ee-doo-ah-doo-ah._

It was a mark of how well he and John knew each other that Sherlock could decipher the semi-coherent gibberish. 

_8\. Shut up._

“Really, Hamish? Bach’s _Wachet Auf_? It’s not even written solely for the violin, I was just improvising with it. That is the piece of music you’ve deigned interesting?” The look he got in return was a borderline glare, and Sherlock shrugged in acquiescence. “Fine, if it will make you happy.”

It did, for awhile. John was right: Hamish really did seem to like that particular cantata. When he’d done all he could with those tunes, he moved onto _Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht_ , which also went over fairly well, and by the time he’d made it to _Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben_ (ridiculously pedestrian, but John thought it was nice, so perhaps Hamish would, too) the baby was calm once more. Sherlock was well aware that the tranquility could shatter apart any second, but it would be nice while it lasted.

* * *

His son was a devious, insolent child. He’d lured his father into a fall sense of security, docile and attentive while Sherlock played the violin, accepting more formula and a bit of pureed mush (supposedly it tasted of sweet potato but Sherlock was doubtful) without a fuss and even consenting to take a short nap. Then he underhandedly unleashed all of his ire upon waking, when Sherlock least expected it. Cruel urchin.

A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn’t even six – he still had over thirty hours before John was due home. Could he last thirty more hours without his doctor?

Hamish’s cries went up a notch in volume.

No, he couldn’t. But John would be angry at missing the conference, which was Not Good. He simply could not do this on his own. Perhaps he could call Mrs. Hudson away from her sister’s? No, also Not Good – she had been looking forward to seeing the woman for a month now. Which meant both of Hamish’s favourite people were unavailable, and left Sherlock out of options.

Or did it? Sherlock grabbed at his mobile, opening up a new text message.

_Your presence is required at Baker St. SH_

It was barely a minute before he received a reply, but Hamish managed to use the time to practice his marksmanship and hit his father in the head with a rattle from across the room. Sherlock was grudgingly impressed.

_Sherlock, I told you, I don’t have any cases for you. Been pretty slow around here._

_Not looking for a case. I need your assistance. SH_

_I am not helping with your experiments again, not after the last time. I still have burn marks on my arms._

_Lestrade. SH_

_You better not have blown anything up._

And then, as a last resort: _Please. SH_

_Fine. Just picked up Chinese – I’ll be there in fifteen minutes._

_Acceptable. SH_

“There, see? Someone else is coming to visit. The probability of your liking him more than me is rather high, don’t you think?” Hamish only continued to pout in his general direction, staring pointedly at the rattle still on the floor. Sherlock managed to hold his ground for an entire six minutes before giving in and returning it. “If you are going to turn this into one of those mindless games where I continually fetch it for you like some hound, you will be sadly disappointed.” It was the wrong thing to say. Hamish was suddenly bawling, and no amount of murmuring or coddling on Sherlock’s part could convince him to settle. So the detective elected to throw himself into a sulking heap on the sofa and stay there until Lestrade arrived.

Ironically, or perhaps not, knowing how his son liked to make a liar of him, Hamish stopped crying at the instant the front door opened. Lestrade called up to Sherlock when he entered the building, voice echoing as he was ascending the steps into the flat.

“Alright, Sherlock? I have the takeaway with me. I wasn’t planning on sharing, but there’ll still be plenty for both of us. And I’ve coincidentally got those dumplings you like so much.” He opened up the door to 221b, briefly confused about the contents of _Jane Eyre_ still scattered across the floor before dismissing them. “Now, what’s your huge crisis, Sherlock? You and the flat both look relatively normal.”

“My huge crisis, as you so quaintly put it, is him,” Sherlock replied dryly, a hand gesturing at the tear-stained face of his son. Lestrade let the bags of takeaway drop to the floor as he stared at both of them in shock. Hamish took it as a cue to begin crying once again, uttering little whimpering noises.

“That,” he finally managed, pointing at the now pitiful-looking Hamish, “is a baby.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed! Small wonder I’ve been having so many problems!”

“No, but…why have _you_ got a baby?”

“Really, Lestrade, I would have expected you’d understand the mechanics of human reproduction by this stage in your life.”

“Yeah, alright, I don’t need to help you, you know.” Sherlock huffed in response and picked up the discarded Chinese food. “Where’s John?”

“Sheffield. Medical conference. You said you had dumplings?”

“Oy, not just yet,” Lestrade protested. Sherlock fully ignored him, sweeping aside some equipment to make room on the kitchen table for the takeaway. “Now then, is this for a case? Some client asked you, God forbid, to watch their kid?”

“Hardly. As ever, you see but do not observe. You’ve forgotten chopsticks.”

“You know I can’t use the ruddy things. If he’s not here for a case, then why is he here at all? Did you owe someone a favuor or something?” 

“In a manner of speaking,” came the ambiguous response. Lestrade moved to the crib, plucking the crying child up and rocking him a bit. The baby calmed quickly, intrigued by a new face.

“See, it’s not so bad,” the inspector told him with a smile, catching one of the child’s tiny hands in his own. “Does the mysterious baby have a name, Sherlock?”

“Hamish.” Sherlock returned with the container of dumplings, having dug up chopsticks from somewhere in the mess that was 221b’s kitchen.

“Just ‘Hamish’?” Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, thrusting the chopsticks back in the container and turning away.

“Hamish Philander Holmes, if you must know,” he informed the wall. Lestrade blinked, processing that, before turning slowly.

“You’ve got a…nephew, then?”

“It is both amusing and repulsive that you think anyone would willingly father a child with my brother.” It took the older man several minutes to formulate a reply. When he finally did, it was less than eloquent.

“You… _reproduced_?”

“I am perfectly capable, thank you.”

“You…but you’re Sherlock Holmes!”

“Your powers of observation are astounding, Detective Inspector. I would completely forget my name if I didn’t have you here to remind me.” Lestrade ignored his wit, still focused on Hamish.

“So you, went about it the, uh, normal way, then?”

“You do realise my son is not yet old enough to understand the phrase ‘sexual intercourse’ and you therefore do not need to dance around the subject, yes?”

“I’m just checking,” he said, still astutely not looking in Sherlock’s direction.

“Yes, we went about it the ‘normal way.’ Hamish’s mother falsely assured me that she was taking birth control medication, and dropped him on my doorstep two months ago.”

“Do I even want to ask who his mother is?”

“I would advise against it.” With that, Sherlock returned to the dumplings, leaving Lestrade and his son to examine each other in confusion.

“So, if Hamish has been here for two months – why’re you just now calling me over?”

“Mrs. Hudson is at her sister’s.” As if that actually answered his question.

“And?”

“And without John and Mrs. Hudson my son becomes…upset. You have spawn of your own, I figured you would know some tricks.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Lestrade evenly, “you called me over here to babysit your son?”

“Keep up, Lestrade!” he scoffed in annoyance. “I didn’t call you, for one, and as for the reason you’re here, I understand perfectly well how to take care of Hamish. The problem is that he…cries. A lot, when it’s only the two of us, and I am not exactly knowledgeable on how to…fix it.” He brought his gaze up from the floor to see Lestrade staring at him in near amazement. “What?”

“You’re actually…paternal!”

“I’m not, though, haven’t you been listening?” But Lestrade was chuckling now, readjusting his hold on Hamish to facilitate putting a hand on the detective’s shoulder.

“Sherlock, listen, you’re a new parent. Can’t believe I’m saying those words, but they’re true. You don’t magically get all the answers because you’ve suddenly got a kid. But you – you’re putting effort toward this. You’re recognizing that your child is upset and you’re doing something about it and that is…really quite sweet, actually.” Sherlock huffed at him and turned away again, but Lestrade caught a glimpse of a smile as he did. Hamish, sensing his father was pleased and content, decided this would be a good time to announce his displeasure. Loudly. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him and smirked. “You’re certainly your father’s son, aren’t you? What do you normally do when he cries, Sherlock?”

“John left a list, but it’s been horrendously useless so far,” he said, thrusting the paper in Lestrade’s general direction as Hamish continued to cry.

“ _Item Two: Changed him recently?_ You need a reminder to change your son’s diaper?” Lestrade asked flatly.

“John’s idea of a joke.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you. Oy, how about this? _12\. You could always take him for a walk._ It’s a nice night, let’s eat dinner and take him over to Regent’s Park. Bet he’d enjoy that.” He glanced back at the list in confusion. “What does thirteen mean? _In the safe parts of town_? Where exactly have you taken this baby, Sherlock?”

“My flatmate likes to overreact,” he groaned. “Hamish and I were both perfectly fine.”

“ _14\. You know what I mean_. Seriously, Sherlock, what did you do? You didn’t bring him with you on a case, did you? No wonder he’s upset with you!”

“I didn’t have any other choice! And all we did was go into that old tube stop at Wood Lane, but to hear John tell it you’d think I’d brought our son to the gates of Hell.”

“Right,” said Lestrade slowly. “Well, let’s just stick with the park this time, shall we?” He brought Hamish into the kitchen and tried futilely to calm him down while opening a container of fried rice before it dawned on him. “Wait, wait, you said ‘our’ son.”

“Your point?” Sherlock asked, disinterested. He’d polished off the dumplings and was now searching the bags for fortune cookies as Hamish finally quieted, playing with his discarded chopsticks.

“Ours?”

“Well, I didn’t mean yours, obviously.”

“I’m willingly helping you, Sherlock, so stop being a prat. Your son, with John Watson? How exactly did this child come into the world?”

“I thought we’d been over that already.”

“Sherlock.” The man in question rolled his eyes, but Lestrade held his ground, brandishing his fork. “Tell me.”

“Fine.” He sat down at the table, gesturing for inspector to do the same. “While I was…away,” he explained bluntly, “I ran into a bit of trouble and needed to ask an old acquaintance for a favuor. She agreed, but the price was a night in bed. She promised me she was taking contraceptives and therefore, we didn’t use protection; I’ve already got the lecture from my brother so there’s no need for your input on that score. I knew nothing about his existence until she dropped him off two months ago, claiming that she was in too much danger to be looking after a child. As for John, he is living under the false impression that his relationship with the baby is somehow lesser than mine and I am diligently working to convince him otherwise. Satisfied?” Sherlock looked up at him. “Oh, you still want to know who his mother is.”

“Have to admit, I’m a bit curious. Do I know her?”

“You know of her. Can we go to the park now?” Lestrade looked up from the fried rice in amazement.

“Have you got a fever or something?”

“I’m simply finding this thread of conversation tedious.” Hamish, seemingly unable to go for more than about three minutes without crying, got bored of the chopsticks and voiced his own opinion on the matter. “My son agrees with me. Park, Lestrade. The food will wait.” Sherlock stalked away from the table, leaving a very confused Lestrade and a very upset Hamish. He returned within seconds, holding what must have been his son’s coat, which looked suspiciously familiar.

“You…got Hamish an infant version of your own coat?”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, snatching the boy out of Lestrade’s hold and deftly doing up the coat.

“Nah, it’s…cute.”

“How lovely. Are you coming or aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rising. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Sherlock nearly marched out of the flat and onto the street, Lestrade following a few seconds later. He was secretly questioning exactly how relaxing the man’s current pace must be for Hamish, but the child seemed completely dazzled by the outdoors, settling immediately and looking around in wonderment. Lestrade caught up with them in a few strides and couldn’t help chuckling at their situation.

“S’nice, innit? Lovely stroll around town with the baby.”

“Shut up, Lestrade,” Sherlock shot back, but it lacked the usual bite. The detective was too busy being enamored with his son, and Lestrade had to smother a grin. They were quiet for a few minutes, caught up in their own thoughts; Hamish brought them out of their respective reveries with delighted giggles when they reached Regents Park.

“Has he seen trees before?”

“Don’t be absurd, of course he has.” A beat. “I think he just likes the colour green, to be honest.” Lestrade hummed in response, and they fell silent again. The park was peaceful, only a few joggers, cyclists, and evening picnickers milling about; a mother passed them on the path, pushing a buggy, and gave a haggard smile to the pair of them. 

“Haven’t you got a pram?”

“Ask yourself if you can honestly picture either John or I with a perambulator, and then rethink that question.”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock was about to respond when he was cut off by a squeal to their right. He flinched, nearly backing into Lestrade, clutching Hamish tightly to his chest. Two of the picnickers rushed at them, a pair of young women, who wasted no time in cooing and fussing over Sherlock and Hamish.

“Aww, he’s adorable!” one of them, brunette with an old Beatles shirt, gushed. “What’s his name?” Seeing Sherlock still too flabbergasted to answer, Lestrade stepped in.

“Hamish. How many months old now, Sherlock?”

“Um, six and a half. Nearly seven.”

“Oh, you both must be so happy!” The blonde with a pixie cut was moving in now, and Sherlock was almost pressed against the other man’s side. Lestrade was so amused at the detective’s obvious discomfort that it took a moment to process the implication.

“No, no, he’s not…we aren’t…” But he was completely ignored, and suddenly felt like he could commiserate with John Watson.

“Can I hold him?” the first asked, not even waiting for an answer before grabbing him. Sherlock twitched, an aborted gesture as if he was seriously contemplating seizing him back; a look at his face made Lestrade realise he was legitimately panicked, and he squeezed the man’s arm. Hamish looked happy enough, at least. Actually, come to think of it, Hamish looked quite pleased with himself as the two women heaped praises on him. Like father, like son. Sherlock, seeing that they weren’t torturing the child, relaxed a bit, even obliging to smile at them.

The girls were eventually convinced to return Hamish to his father, and the experience seemed to do wonders for the baby. He was mostly calm for the remainder of the evening, deigning to take more formula without any protestations and allowing Lestrade to entertain him with a ridiculously demeaning game of peek-a-boo while Sherlock checked his ongoing experiments. The kidneys having been monitored, Lestrade suggested they give Hamish a bath.

“Why? It’s not as if he’s done anything particularly strenuous today.”

“That’s…not quite the point, Sherlock. He should have a bath.”

“But why?” Sherlock looked legitimately confused by the idea, and Lestrade found he really couldn’t come up with a logical reason.

“Because that’s what you do with babies. At least, that’s what we did with Charlotte.” The detective shrugged in compliance.

“You’re the expert.”

Lestrade wanted to be upset at the offhand insult until he realised that Sherlock _did_ consider him the authority on parenting. He couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or worried, so he settled on simply picking Hamish up and carrying him into the bathroom. He proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes laughing hysterically at Sherlock’s attempts at bathing his son before finally taking pity on the man and doing it himself. Hamish, finally washed, dressed, and looking decidedly sleepy, was then placed gently in the center of the detective’s bed.

Sherlock, some soap still lingering in his hair, staggered into the sitting room and collapsed onto the couch. Lestrade headed over to the fridge, stealing a couple of John’s beers before joining him and flicking the television on. He handed Sherlock one of the bottles, surprised when he drank it without hesitation.

“Really? Never pegged you for a beer man.” Sherlock blinked at him.

“I’m not.” Lestrade raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the bottle, and Sherlock appeared to notice it for the first time, staring at it in wonder before shrugging and continuing to drink.

They stayed like that for hours, Sherlock making rude comments at the telly and Lestrade finding it strangely pleasant until he began feeling drowsy. Which, upon peering at the clock, made perfect sense.

“S’late,” Lestrade muttered, turning to the man next to him. Sherlock whipped his head around, something akin to fear flashing across his face for a moment before it was expertly smoothed away.

“Of course. I’m grateful for your assistance.” Neither of them moved for several minutes.

“D’you want me to stay? Only I’ve got tomorrow off – Saturday, and everything. Didn’t have anything on.” Sherlock glanced up at him, looking truly vulnerable for the first time in years.

“John said he would be home in 23 hours.”

“Not how I intended to spend my Saturday,” Lestrade chuckled, “but it’ll be nice having you owe me a solid favour. You’re consulting on the next three cases I ask you to, whether you find them boring or not. And you’ll be civil to my team.”

“Amenable.”

“Good. I’ll take John’s room. You haven’t hidden anything completely revolting in there again, have you?”

“That was once,” Sherlock protested, “and it wasn’t even that bad.”

“It was a decomposing _chicken_. In his wardrobe. In July.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t decomposing very quickly, or he would have noticed it sooner. Although he was also fighting off a cold he picked up from the surgery at the time, so perhaps…”

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” interrupted Lestrade, patting the younger man’s back. “Sleep well. If you have any more crises before morning, try to solve them on your own, yeah?”


	2. Saturday

Sherlock couldn’t solve the crises on his own.

Lestrade, woken by Hamish’s piercing screams at approximately four in the morning, suddenly realized exactly why it was that Sherlock couldn’t solve the crises on his own. The complacent, cheerful baby from last night had been replaced by a terror who would not be placated. The pair of them began taking shifts, trying everything from feeding to changing to rocking to making bizarre faces at him, but Hamish simply was not appeased. Sherlock picked up his violin again during his shift (while Lestrade retreated back to John’s room with a pillow over his head) and attempted another go at Wachet auf, but the baby wasn’t having any of it. The instrument was tossed haphazardly on top of the pile of books still in his chair. Lestrade, checking John’s list again ( _3.He might be tired. Even Holmes babies need sleep_ ), used every trick he had learned raising his daughter to convince Hamish to take a nap, with no luck. The offhand comment ( _4\. He takes after his father. If he doesn’t want to go to sleep, make him_ ) was not at all helpful, and made Lestrade wonder if the child was indeed a perfect angel for John.

9 AM and no sign of relief found Lestrade and Sherlock slumped at the kitchen table, clutching mugs of tepid coffee.

“When does John get back?”

“He said midnight,” came Sherlock’s response, muffled as he let his head fall onto the table with a thud.

“Can we ask him to come back early?”

“Fifteen.”

“What?” He was too exhausted to follow whatever logic Sherlock was using.

“The list. Number fifteen.” Lestrade grumbled something unintelligible, getting up from the table and searching for wherever he’d thrown the bloody thing after the failed nap attempts. He finally found it inside the skull on the mantelpiece, chucking the macabre decoration onto John’s normal chair in some kind of retribution.

“ _I’ll have my phone on me. Calling is a LAST RESORT_. Sherlock, I think we can consider this a last resort. He’s been at it for five hours. I don’t know how much more I can take.” Sherlock’s head shot up frantically, a stray piece of paper clinging to his cheek.

“You’re not going to leave, are you? Lestrade, I can’t…”

“No, no, calm down. As much as I regret it now, I told you I’d stay. Might move the payment up to six cases, though, if this keeps up much longer.”

“You can have ten if you get him to stop.”

“What, you think I haven’t been trying?” he muttered, shuffling back over to Hamish’s crib and picked him up. “Come on, tell your Uncle Greg what’s wrong.”

“You’re not my brother,” Sherlock said, head falling back down. “I already have one of those, thank you, and that is one more than I would like.”

As if he’d been waiting for the cue, Mycroft Holmes suddenly appeared in the doorway, immaculately dressed and laden with a holdall. He took in the scene with an air of disdain, one eyebrow raised in that haughty way of his. Sherlock turned his head away, but otherwise made no movement.

“Has it occurred to you that I could perhaps be of service?”

“Liar. You’re just here for Mrs. Hudson’s casserole.”

“An added incentive, I assure you.”

“What exactly do you know about parenting?” Lestrade asked. “You don’t…God, tell me you don’t have kids.” Sherlock snorted, and Mycroft’s face twisted into a sneer.

“Of course not. Hamish is, however, Sherlock’s son, who I spent a large portion of my early life raising.”

“No one asked you to.”

“It stands to reason, therefore,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “that I may know a thing or two about my nephew that the pair of you do not.” He crossed the room, taking a stuffed bumblebee out of his bag and presenting it to the still-sobbing Hamish. The baby quieted at once, and Lestrade couldn’t help the sigh of relief that came afterward. Mycroft smirked, taking the boy from the inspector and rocking him gently. “I rest my case.”

“I want to be annoyed at how smug you are,” Lestrade sighed, “but thanks. Surprised the neighbors haven’t called Child Services on us.”

“They have. Since my brother has so kindly deactivated my surveillance systems, I was unaware of the problem until a complaint was forwarded to my office. I believe the caller mentioned something about an ‘infant slaughter house.’”

“Charming. Have you heard anything from his mother?”

“Not since last month’s update. Sherlock…” and then for the first time in years, Mycroft Holmes hesitated. “What are you plans when she comes out of hiding?” Sherlock lifted his head up in confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

“Presumably she still intends to take Hamish back. I do remember you informing her that this was only meant to be a temporary arrangement.” Sherlock glanced at his son, still content in Mycroft’s arms, as comprehension dawned.

“We could work something out, I’m certain.”

“And you would be content with seeing your son every other weekend or some other such arrangement?”

No. No, he wouldn’t. And even if they did organize some kind of schedule, he highly doubted Irene would stick to it with any kind of regularity. He suddenly realised how quickly he’d adjusted to Hamish’s existence. It would be preferable if the baby could be convinced to stop crying in his presence, but still, it was – nice. For him be taken away now would be very undesirable.

“Well, you can cross that bridge when you come to it, yeah?” Lestrade suggested. “It’s not easy, mind, but you’ll be okay, Sherlock. Is she reasonable, his mother?” Both of the Holmes brothers groaned, and Lestrade felt like he was missing something.

“It depends entirely on one’s definition of the word,” said Mycroft, placing a now-sleeping Hamish back in his crib. “But I would personally not describe Ms. Adler as reasonable, no.”

“Ms. – the dominatrix?!”

“Of all the things she did, that’s the one you focus on?” Sherlock scoffed. “I would be a bit more concerned about the liaison with Moriarty and the fact that she tried to extort millions of pounds from the government, myself, but what do I know?” He stood up from the table and stalked over to the sofa, flinging himself down with a flourish.

“She’s not dead then?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Right.” Mycroft gave him an appraising look, then turned to his brother and did the same.

“Why don’t you return to John’s room, Inspector? I can take care of my nephew for a few hours. Some sleep will do you both well.” Sherlock muttered something uncomplimentary and rolled over, but Lestrade had to admit he was grateful for the offer.

“Thanks.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shuffled over to the stairs. “Let us know if you need anything.”

“I will be fine,” Mycroft placated him. “Hamish is not nearly as difficult as you two have made him out to be.”

“Piss off,” grumbled Sherlock, and Greg chuckled when he realised he was already half asleep. Maybe fatherhood would solve the detective’s deplorable sleeping habits.

* * *

_17\. If all else fails, try crap telly._

Mycroft, predictably, lasted barely two hours alone with Hamish before he had to wake Sherlock and Lestrade for help. They had consulted John’s list again, though why any of them expected a new recommendation to materialize, Sherlock didn’t know. The inspector had suggested they just skip right to the end, which is how the three of them, Mycroft still attempting to calm his nephew, had ended up sprawled on the couch and watching Connie Prince reruns.

It wasn’t working.

To make matters worse, Hamish was now ignoring his formula and any of the assorted jars of goo in the flat, and Sherlock was beginning to be concerned. He’d never refused to eat before. Didn’t that mean he was sick? He’d nearly called John in a panic before his brother convinced him to wait and see if things would get better.

He made it through one episode (longer than anyone was expecting) before stomping into the kitchen and setting up his science equipment.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called. “John said no experiments!”

_5\. He’s your son, so chances are that he’s bored. Note that this is not permission to involve him in dangerous any experiments._

“I’m not involving him and they’re not experiments!” he yelled back, struggling with one of the Bunsen burners. “I’m attempting to make baby food. It can’t be that difficult.”

“You’re _what_?” Mycroft and Lestrade both sounded aghast at the idea – the latter actually leapt off of the sofa.

“Well he’s clearly not interested with what we have on hand, and what’s the point of getting any from the shops when I can produce some here and test his reactions to it?”

“That sounds an awful lot like involving your son in experiments.”

“Semantics.”

“Right. Listen, if you’re going to be blowing things up, maybe Mycroft and I should take Hamish outside.”

“For God’s sake, nothing is going to explode. It’s just like cooking. Only with less texture.”

Lestrade still looked suspicious, leaving the two Holmeses on the couch and joining Sherlock in the kitchen.

“I believe you told me you wouldn’t help with experiments again.”

“Yeah, well, you said this wasn’t an experiment and it wasn’t going to blow up, so I shouldn’t have anything to worry about, should I?” Sherlock gave a little smirk before directing him to raid the refrigerator and pantry. He decided to ignore Mrs. Hudson’s casserole – might as well ensure they still had something edible after all this. Before long, Lestrade had piled most of the flat’s groceries in front of them and Sherlock had retrieved nine Erlenmeyer flasks and two small copper pots from the “Experiments” cupboards.

“Right. We’ll start with the fruit. Lestrade, peel the orange.”

“What’s the magic word?” Sherlock turned to him, baffled.

“Is this about that ridiculous book with the children who think brooms can fly?”

“Never mind.”

It took Lestrade three minutes to peel the orange, during which time Sherlock had already chopped the strawberries and attempted to make a puree of them. The first batch was too thin, so he’d thrown in some flour, at which point the entire mixture seized up and he had to dilute it again. Mrs. Hudson had never let on that cooking was this difficult. Lestrade finally handed him the orange segments and they traded roles; the end products were assured to at least not kill his son so Mycroft brought the baby into the kitchen to try them.

Hamish was unimpressed.

Sherlock, remembering John giving the boy some grape jam the week before, emptied all five of their jars into the pot and attempted to make a roux with them while Lestrade moved on to working with the vegetables. Mycroft had abandoned the television, preferring to observe their progress smugly. Even Hamish seemed slightly interested in the procedures, but to no avail. They’d filled each of the flasks with something more repugnant-looking than the last and his son had turned down every single one.  
It was after Lestrade halfheartedly suggested they try to make baby food from bread that he remembered the jam still in the pot.

“Mycroft!” His warning was a split second too late.

The cover shot into the air with a tremendous bang followed by a gelatinous purple mass that mostly ended up on the ceiling but managed to hit brother in the face, as well. All four of them stared at the results for a few seconds before Hamish began squealing with laughter. Sherlock and Lestrade helplessly joined in a moment later, turning slightly hysterical as Mycroft nearly growled at them. He stopped in surprise as his nephew, still giggling, wiped some of the goo off of his face and tasted it. Grape jam roux apparently passed judgement, as Hamish went back for a second helping, and Sherlock scrambled to recover whatever was still left in the pot on the stove. Mycroft all but shoved the baby into Lestrade’s arms before stalking to the bathroom and washing his face. The three of them were still laughing as Sherlock packaged the jam remnants and Lestrade put a bigger pan onto the stove to catch the ceiling drippings.

He’d managed to please his son and upset his brother in one amazing (albeit accidental) maneuver. Sherlock called that a success.

Perhaps the jam had magical properties, because Hamish was suddenly quite content to nap, giving the adults a blessed reprieve for almost two hours. Mycroft had elected to stay, against Sherlock’s wishes (goodness know what horrors you two will inflict upon the baby in my absence), helping himself to the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left behind. The three of them attempted a game of Cluedo for all of fifteen minutes before Lestrade pinned it back on the wall himself. Apparently some things, including Sherlock’s detailed description of precisely how Mr. Black had managed to throw suspicion off of himself through a rather gruesome poisoning, were better left unsaid. They’d all left each other alone after that.

Hamish woke up whinging again – it was turning into a horrible cycle and Sherlock had no idea how to break it. Lestrade and Mycroft checked John’s list for what seemed like the fourteenth time and decided to try playing with the letter blocks as suggested. Ridiculous things, a purchase made by John, but Hamish liked them for some reason. He hoped they were at least producing interesting words.

Sherlock, meanwhile, admitted defeat and began to scroll through a number of parenting sites. Most of the people were morons, but with such a large number of users there had to be something worthwhile.

“I doubt calling this woman’s son a ‘miserable cretin destined for menial labor’ is going to get you any assistance.”

He’d lost track of time – suddenly Mycroft was behind him, reading over his shoulder. Lestrade came over, as well, skimming over the screen.

“Sherlock!” he yelled, shoving him away from the desk. “Seriously, stop insulting the other parents.”

“But they’re all idiots! This one has clearly never researched the milestones if she’s excited about his completely dismal progress at this stage, and BuyYouAMockingbird9838 appears to have never studied grammar in his life.”

“Yeah, alright, how about you let me handle the online forums, okay?” Sherlock harrumphed and took Lestrade’s vacated spot on the floor by the letter blocks. Mycroft had been arranging them in a surprisingly useful list of algae species so he continued the trend, moving on to local plants. Hamish seemed marginally interested; Sherlock decided this was a vast improvement from definitely upset. There was blessed silence for a few minutes: Mycroft checking his emails, Sherlock creating a taxonomy of mosses, and Lestrade searching through parenting sites.

“Perhaps we should admit defeat and recall Dr. Watson,” his brother murmured after a while, as Hamish began showing signs of boredom again.

“No.” For reasons unknown to even him, Sherlock was determined to prove to John that he could take care of their son. Even if that entailed asking everyone else he knew for help.

“Maybe he needs a woman’s touch?”

“John is not a woman, Lestrade.”

“How do you know he’s crying about John? Maybe he just really likes your landlady. And he seemed good with those girls from the park.” Sherlock stopped scowling and considered the idea. It actually had merit: assuming that Irene had largely raised Hamish herself, the baby was probably much more familiar with female contact. He was willing to try, at any rate.

“Do you think your ex-wife would…?”

“No.”

“Mycroft, that nameless assistant…”

“No.”

“Molly Hooper!” Sherlock cried, lunging for his mobile. “Molly Hooper is a woman!”

“Sherlock, you cannot just expect people to be at your beck and call,” reprimanded Mycroft.

“Can’t I?”

_Come to Baker St. for tea. SH_ Her reply was nearly instantaneous.

_Of course! Should I bring anything? :)_

“Hey,” Lestrade called over from the desk, “this lady says finger painting calms her kid down. How does Hamish feel about art?”

“No idea,” muttered Sherlock as he typed a response. _Large quantities of non-toxic paint. One each of the primary colors should be fine. SH_

_Paint? Experimenting on the tea, are we? :)_

_Not exactly. Get an additional one of white. SH_ “How old is that child with the paint?”

“Uh, nearly a year. Bit older than he is.”

“I’m positive Hamish is advanced enough to work with simple art supplies,” Mycroft answered for him, and Sherlock smirked a bit despite himself. _Bring some mount board, as well. SH_

_Should I even ask? :)_

_Inadvisable. SH_ Whatever scenarios Molly was devising in her head, she was bound to be rather disappointed. He’d need to make it up to her at some point. Maybe they could actually get coffee like she was always suggesting.

I’ll be there in about half an hour, then. :)

Lestrade and Mycroft spent another twenty minutes scanning the parenting sites for more suggestions before Sherlock forced them both away in annoyance. They predictably turned to Mrs. Hudson’s casserole instead while Sherlock placed Hamish in the crib and futilely attempted to force him asleep. He ignored Mycroft’s suggestion to “sing those songs that grandmère liked so much” on principle, though he did surreptitiously hum a few of the melodies under his breath. It was ineffective. Not that he was surprised.

Molly eventually broke up the monotony with a bang, struggling with two large canvas bags all the way up the stairwell before she forced the flat’s door open.

“Sorry, it was unlocked, so I figured I’d just come up.”

“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock muttered, relieving her of the bags of paint and setting them in a heap off to the side.

“Perhaps you could have offered to carry Miss Hooper’s things before she took all the trouble to come up the stairs,” Mycroft admonished from the other room, and Molly jumped.

“Oh!” she said in surprise, taking in the two of them at the kitchen counter. “I didn’t realise you had guests! And I was okay, anyways.”

“Whatever Sherlock told you,” Lestrade mumbled through a mouthful of the casserole, “it was a lie.”

“He…said to come for tea? And I’ve brought the paint.” She gestured to the pile Sherlock had thrown haphazardly at the sofa and managed to catch a glance at Hamish peeking out from the crib. “My goodness, you’ve got a baby! Congratulations…uh, Greg?”

“Mine, actually, Molly.” Years ago, before Sherlock spent four nights camped out on her sofa, making a general nuisance of himself and upsetting Toby, she might have been dismayed by the revelation that he had a child and, presumably, that child had a mother. Now, however, it garnered nothing more than a surprised look.

“So the paint is for…?”

“I’m desperate. We’re going to try an art project. He’s seemed interested in my experiments: maybe this can provide a safe and non-explosive alternative until he’s Of Age.” Lestrade momentarily looked up from the casserole in bewilderment.

“You’ve worked out when he’s officially allowed to start experiments?”

“Yes. There’s a chart in the airing cupboard.”

“Why the airing cupboard?” Molly asked.

“Where else was I supposed to put it?” She blinked at him as he began rifling through the bags on the floor in approval. Hamish cooed in her general direction and she obligingly went to stand in front of the crib. The baby looked at her, scrutinizing with a rather familiar expression before lifting his arms in an obvious request to be picked up. Molly smiled and acquiesced, rocking him a little.

“Well, hello there! Aren’t you just adorable?” Hamish grabbed at her fingers and she chuckled a little, looking up and catching a glimpse of Sherlock’s astonished expression. “What? I know how to hold a baby, Sherlock, I won’t drop him.”

“No, no, it’s just – he’s never done that before. Asked a stranger to hold him.”

“Told you,” Lestrade muttered smugly. “Woman’s touch. You owe me a speck of credit.”

“Have you eaten, Miss Hooper? There’s plenty here, if you’d like. I assure you it was prepared by Mrs. Hudson and not our resident mad scientist.” Sherlock sneered at him from across the room. “Hamish, by the way, since my brother has neglected to inform you of his son’s name. Do come and join us, please. I’m afraid the table is out of commission until Sherlock decides to clean up the mess from the latest failed experiment.” She hesitated for only a second before joining them, placing Hamish gently down next to her as Mycroft served her a helping of the dish. “Are you deigning to eat, brother dear? You really should, you know.” The man huffed, abandoning the paint supplies before moodily grabbing the plate and shoving Lestrade over to make room.

“Well, this is cozy.”

“Please don’t, Molly,” Sherlock sighed.

“Okay.”

There were a few minutes of silence skirting the border between blissful and awkward before Sherlock broke them himself with a grumble.

“It wasn’t a failure.”

“Hm?” Lestrade looked up from his casserole in confusion. “What are you on about?”

“The experiment. It wasn’t a failure.”

“I suppose it depends which side of the jam you were on,” Mycroft muttered querulously.

“I found something he was willing to eat. I call that a success.”

Sherlock declared himself bored with the meal after about fifteen minutes, decidedly ignoring the fact that he’d had two and a half helpings of the casserole. When one was presented with Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, one didn’t waste it. He busied himself with the art materials as the others finished up, throwing some mount board onto the floor to join the remnants of Jane Eyre. The paint cans were enthusiastically opened with the crowbar that usually resided under John’s chair, though it led to a few jagged edges, which just wouldn’t do. Sherlock returned to the kitchen to retrieve their collection of assorted tea kettles, finding a mostly-quiet Hamish staring at the proceedings with poorly veiled interest. Good.

With the paint poured into child-safe tea kettles and the food polished off, they adjourned to the sitting room. Sherlock set his son down in front of the array of supplies and waited to see what would happen.

Nothing, for a few minutes. Hamish was clearly intrigued but unsure exactly what he was meant to be doing. Molly finally came to his rescue, placing a small amount of blue and yellow paint on the mount board in front of them. Hamish experimentally pawed at the blue, squealing delightedly when he discovered that it changed the colour of his hand. A second swipe at the yellow and he’d begun to make green in the center of the paper. Hamish looked up at his father in wonder at this development and Sherlock chuckled a bit. 

“What do the milestones say for learning about primary and secondary colours, Lestrade?”

“Hell if I know,” he replied, grabbing a piece of mount board for himself and a bit of the blue. Hamish tugged at one of Sherlock’s hands in a clear invitation, so he added some red and white to their canvas and silently took pride in the baby’s ecstatic giggles. It was beautiful.

That is, until he let his guard down for an instant and Hamish decided to be devious again.

On second thought, wearing a white shirt while interacting with an infant and paint was probably not a good idea. He’d thought to close his eyes at the last second, at least, but he could still feel the liquid oozing down his face and dripping onto his clothing. Some of it had got into his mouth, as well. Good job he’d requested the non-toxic variety. Lestrade, not even bothering to hide his laughter, shoved him in the direction of the loo and told him to wash up.

When he returned, he was greeted by the oddest picture he’d ever seen in the flat. Mycroft Holmes was sitting on the bare wood floor, wearing one of Sherlock’s old dressing gowns backwards to keep the suit immaculate and avoid making the same mistake as his brother. Hamish was seated securely in front of him, cooing happily to his uncle as the two of them attempted to create the perfect shade of black for a cab. Greg and Molly were off to the side with their own piece of mount board and a large quantity of pink and green paint, chuckling incessantly. The whole scene was not entirely unpleasant. Sherlock found himself smiling without meaning to, startled when Mycroft looked up and returned the expression.

“Your son seems to have a penchant for art,” he said simply, returning to their taxi.

“Your nephew seems to be enjoying himself,” was the reply.

“Not sure this really counts as art,” muttered Lestrade from the corner. Molly gave a little squeak when she realized that Sherlock was bare-chested, though it dissolved into giggles as Lestrade flicked a bit of pink across their canvas. Interesting, that. Required more research.

Sherlock let them all continue for nearly half an hour, choosing instead to observe from his new perch on the sofa. Molly and Greg were set on a crude portrayal of a field of flowers while Hamish persisted to make unrealistic choices about colours. Mycroft, amazingly, went along with the whole thing without bothering to correct him. Then, with a final vaguely-white cloud-like shape and an incoherent babble, Hamish pronounced the masterpiece finished and attempted to crawl off toward the kitchen. Mycroft caught him deftly, smearing paint all over his makeshift smock, and saying something about a bath. Sherlock surreptitiously crept over to survey the finished product.

He had to admit that it did actually resemble a cab driving down a street, if one disregarded the orange buildings and green sky. Of course, he’d had assistance. Then again, exactly how much help could Mycroft Holmes be for artistic guidance? Clearly Hamish had done the brunt of the work. Sherlock picked the painting up reverently and took it into his bedroom to dry. He returned to find that Greg and Molly had scrubbed the paint off the floor; there was now a bucket full of brown-tinged soapy water in the middle of the room, three stray pages of _Jane Eyre_ floating tranquilly in the suds. Sherlock, for lack of better place to put it, settled it in the empty fireplace. John could deal with that when he came home: payment for making him resort to these ridiculous measures.

Of course, it couldn’t last. By the time Mycroft and Hamish returned from their bath the boy was upset again.

“What did you do?” Sherlock growled. “He was fine minutes ago!”

“I didn’t do anything, Sherlock. Just cleaned off the paint, I promise.” Mycroft gently placed the baby back in his crib, though it did nothing to quiet him down.

“You probably got soap in his eyes!”

“For goodness sake, I was careful. I assure you, I do know how to bathe a child. Or are you forgetting the week that Mummy left us alone to go to a conference in Geneva and forgot to hire a nanny?” Sherlock nearly snarled at him and stalked into the kitchen before remembering the state of their kettles.

“Be useful and get one of your agents to fetch us some tea.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, brother dear, MI5 does not exist to ensure you have a constant supply of tea."

“Really? And do they exist to ensure you have a constant supply of cakes?”

“Wait, Sherlock – he stops crying whenever anyone is talking.” Both Holmes interrupted their argument long enough to sneer at him. “Try it!” The flat went quiet for a few seconds before Hamish started screaming again.

“Alright Lestrade, I’m speaking, is it…?” But it was. The child calmed almost as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth, and started up again as he trailed off. That was a new development.

“Say something else!” Molly called over from the couch.

“The extent of reaction Xi can be regarded as a real or hypothetical product, one molecule of which produced each time the reaction event occurs. It is the extensive quantity describing the progress of a chemical reaction equal to the number of chemical transformations, as indicated by the reaction equation on a molecular scale, divided by the Avogadro constant. Mycroft.”

“A point is that which has no part. A line is breadthless length. The ends of a line are points,” his brother continued, and Lestrade was correct. Hamish was completely docile and content as long as he could hear someone’s voice. The moment it became quiet he was a terror. (John had been partially correct: 6. Read to him. He likes your voice). Did this mean they were going to need to talk at him for the next six hours until John was due to return?

Dull.

Mycroft was still reciting Euclid, so everything was momentarily fine. But, while he could certainly orate the ears off of government officials and probably several statues, his brother was eventually going to need to stop. They could attempt to keep up an ongoing conversation around Hamish, but ideally this exercise should serve some kind of educational purpose. It was no use surrounding his son with whatever drivel could be generated by a five-hour long forced discussion. He left halfway through the Definitions, retrieving the Periodic Table from the wall of his bedroom and propping it pointedly against the window in front of Lestrade. The Inspector took over, substituting element names and atomic weights for Euclidean geometry. Then Molly plucked the dictionary off of his chair and opened to a random page in K, and Sherlock countered with the case notes from a recent burglary attempt.

They worked into a cycle, a constant intonation flowing about them. It was bizarrely peaceful: a buzz of information floating around the flat, tensions easing with Hamish happy and possibly learning something. All was well.

Sherlock suggested Lestrade return to John’s room on his seventh time through the Periodic Table, after completely mangling the pronunciation of “seaborgium.” Mycroft was sent off to the other bedroom in the flat soon after, though Sherlock insisted he wasn’t allowed to use his duvet and hefted it onto the bison horns for safekeeping. He and Molly continued narrating the dictionary for a further hour before she fell asleep on the couch, still gripping the book. Sherlock was suddenly alone with his son again, though John was due back in only 45 minutes. Everything would be alright.

He picked the baby up out of the crib and rocked him for a bit, but Hamish seemed impressively alert for this time of night and disinclined to sleep. So he sat down on the floor and kept up the litany, instructing him in proper violin bowing technique and then began deducing Molly’s day from the stain on her arm and the state of her makeup. John would be home soon. He could keep going by himself until then.

* * *

“Sherlock, I’m back!” John called as he unlocked the front door, wincing as he realised he’d probably just woken up Hamish. (Wishful thinking: there was no way Sherlock had actually put him to bed at a reasonable time.) Neither father nor son seemed to be in the mood to answer him, however. Odd, that.

“Hello?” John tried again. At least Hamish wasn’t screaming like the last time he’d been left with Sherlock, but the complete and utter lack of noise emanating from 221b was a little disconcerting. Even before Hamish’s arrival, silence generally meant bad things when Sherlock was involved. It suddenly occurred to him that there had been absolutely no texts (from the detective or anyone else he might have contacted) since he left for Sheffield. Concern mounting as he climbed up the stairs, John wasn’t exactly sure what to expect the state of their flat to be, and he took a moment at their door to stomp down the growing dread. He was obviously reading too much into this. Clearly, what had happened was that Sherlock had magically become a stellar father in the past forty hours. He was going to walk into their flat, find Hamish snuggly asleep in his crib and Sherlock calmly reading Socrates. The detective had probably even taken the time to straighten up his files and disinfect the kitchen.

Yes, that’s precisely what he would find.

When he finally couldn’t handle the tension any longer, he swung the door open and forced himself to look at the damage.

He hadn’t even been close.

All four of their kettles (including the one specifically marked “Not for Experiments” in John’s neat hand) were on the floor, two of which appeared to have been mutilated with a blowtorch, and John paled at seeing the first half-full of a thick red liquid. A closer inspection revealed it to be paint; the others housed blue, yellow, and white. For some reason, Molly Hooper was curled up on their couch, clutching the dictionary in her sleep. The periodic table from Sherlock’s bedroom was propped up in the window and his duvet was hanging from the bison skull. The contents of one of the bookcases had been piled haphazardly into Sherlock’s chair, his violin perched precariously on top. There was a neat trail composed of ripped out pages from one of the novels – Jane Eyre, by the look of it – leading from the front door to Sherlock’s bedroom, and a bucket of brown sludgy water (John decidedly did not want to know) had been given a place of honor in the hearth. The kitchen table yielded an impressive collection of Erlenmeyer flasks, each filled to the brim with a different revolting-smelling substance, and there was a pot placed on the stove for the sole purpose of catching the remnants of whatever purple viscous liquid was dripping from the ceiling. Billy the Skull had somehow materialized in John’s chair, as well, surveying the madness with a pleased grin.

And in the center of all the chaos were father and son, caught up in a bizarrely adorable tableau. Sherlock appeared to be dead to the world, sprawled on the floor and shirtless; there was purple paint drying in his hair. Hamish was seated comfortably on his father’s stomach, wearing a green sleepsuit and thoroughly entertaining himself with a stuffed bumblebee John was sure hadn’t been there before he left. It was almost cute enough to keep John from waking Sherlock.

Almost.

He knelt down at the detective’s side, debating how best to wake him, before Hamish seemed to notice his existence. The baby giggled happily and waved his bumblebee at John in greeting. John chuckled under his breath, reluctant to pick Hamish up when he seemed so relaxed with his father. Instead, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and shook him gently. Sherlock startled awake with a gasp, his hand instantly at Hamish’s back to support him before John had even moved. Sherlock peered up at him from his supine position, apparently too exhausted or indifferent to bother with moving, but he at least had the decency to look slightly sheepish.

“Hello, John.”

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“How was, uh, how was Sheffield?”

“Mm, it was good. Really good.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed again, his head falling against the floor. He looked completely shattered, but that didn’t get him out of taking responsibility for the disaster that was their flat.

“Are you going to explain what exactly happened here?”

“Wasn’t planning on it, no.”

“Sherlock…” John ground out. The man smirked, his eyes flashing open in a challenge.

“Deduce it, John. Apply my methods. Everything is fairly self-explanatory, I should think.”

“For God’s sake, I am not doing this now.”

“Suit yourself,” came the lofty response. John glowered at the man on the floor, but had to admit he was curious.

“Fine. Clearly you asked Molly for help, that’s obvious. Um, you’ve experimented, though I strictly told you not to, and I’m guessing you made something explode. Purple, whatever it is. Were you cooking the paint?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but gestured for him to continue.

“Right. No idea what you’ve got against Jane Eyre, but I’m happy the other books thought to fled for cover in your chair. The duvet on the wall – was going to be used as a fire blanket, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Glad of that, at least. Don’t want to think about whatever the hell you’ve put in the fireplace. And the periodic table: you tried to include your son in an experiment, just like I was afraid you would. How did I do?”

“I wasn’t cooking the paint. I was making baby food. We need more jam.” John stared at him in confusion.

“Baby food?”

“He wouldn’t eat. He did like the jam, though. Good for future reference.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t quite count as experimenting.”

“The sludge in the hearth is soapy paint. We did attempt to clean up after ourselves. And I’ve discovered that Hamish enjoys tearing frivolous books to shreds.”

“Never understood why that one was on your bookshelf at all, to be honest. Why is Molly on the sofa? You could have offered her your bed, you know.”

“Mycroft is in it,” said Sherlock glumly.

“Mycroft is…never mind. Ah, that explains the duvet. You do realize that Mycroft can’t actually infect your bedclothes with tediousness, right?” A glare. “And anyways, she could have had mine.”

“Lestrade’s in yours.”

“What were you doing, having a slumber party while I was gone?”

“I…needed help,” he shamefully admitted, turning away slightly.

“Right, so you called in an inspector from Scotland Yard, the British Government, and a Specialist Registrar.”

“Technically speaking, the British Government arrived on his own.”

John stared at him for several seconds, before chuckling helplessly. “I can’t decide if you’re the worst parent in the world, or the best. Are you telling me that all of this was completely necessary?”

“He wouldn’t stop crying, John.” The affronted tone belied a flash of vulnerability crossing briefly over his face. His own son, and Sherlock had been unable to fix the problem. “I obviously had to do something, and I went through your list, _thrice_ , and none of them worked for more than about five minutes. So I called in reinforcements and then I improvised. Eventually I figured it all out. Though, I must admit, I haven’t got a clue what it is.” John decided to let that one go. Sherlock admitting a lack of knowledge in a subject, even one as new as parenting, was enough.

“Well, what about you, Hamish? Someone’s got to take responsibility for all this.” He looked up from his perch on Sherlock’s stomach, seemed to purse his lips in thought, and then:

“Iridium.”

Sherlock shot up so fast that he dislodged Hamish, but neither of them seemed to notice or care. Father and son stared intently at each other while John gaped in amazement.

“Did he just…?”

“Sh, John!” Sherlock waved a frantic hand in his direction. “Hamish?” The baby blinked at him and scowled, equally as annoyed as his father at needing to repeat himself.

“Iridium.” Sherlock grinned, a rare smile John had seen on his face only a few times, before leaping up and tossing Hamish lightly into the air. The boy squealed in delight and Sherlock’s smile got even wider. John hadn’t known it was possible.

“You are brilliant!” he informed his son. “I have to admit, it’s an interesting choice for a first word, but there were far worse options. And the element does exhibit some interesting properties. We’ll need to experiment on it when you’re older. Having a bit of trouble with the diphthong, but that’s to be expected, really. You’re still much farther along than all those ridiculously inane children on the parenting sites. John, do you know where the baby book is?”

“Not in this mess, I don’t.” Sherlock gave an unapologetic shrug and moved over to his chair, carefully sifting through its contents with one arm while holding Hamish against his chest with the other. With all the excitement, it took John a couple of moments to parse through Sherlock’s last statement. “Wait, hang on – parenting sites? _You_ went on parenting sites?”

“I was desperate,” Sherlock muttered, gesturing vaguely at the kettles. “You have them to thank for the suggestion of paint.” Right. He’d need to replace at least two of them if anyone wanted to have tea at some point in the future. Which, knowing Sherlock Holmes, would probably be within the next hour. Still, John found he couldn’t bring himself to get angry at his flatmate, seeing how much trouble he’d gone through to make Hamish happy.

It was worth a kettle – it was worth many kettles – to know the depth of loyalty and love which Sherlock Holmes had for his son.


End file.
